“Do not betray me, my lord,” said Mary, from out of the gloom.

“I will declare your malpractices to the four winds of heaven, Miss Corby, as soon as I know what they are. Why, why do you come rustling into the room like a mouse in the dark? Tell me at once what this hole-and-corner work means.”

“I will not, unless you promise not to betray me, Lord Saltire.”

“Now just think how foolish you are. How can I possibly make myself particeps, of what is evidently a most dark and nefarious business, without knowing beforehand what benefit I am to receive? You offer me no share of booty; you offer me no advantage, direct or indirect, in exchange for my silence, except that of being put in possession of facts which it is probably dangerous to know anything about. How can you expect to buy me on such terms as these?”

“Well, then, I will throw myself on your generosity. I want Blackwood. If I can find Blackwood now, I shall get a full hour at it to myself while you are all at dinner. Do you know where it is?”

“Yes,” said Lord Saltire.

“Do tell me, please. I do so want to finish a story in it. Please to tell me where it is.”

“I won’t.”

“Why not? How very unkind. We have been friends eight months now, and you are just beginning to be cross to me. You see how familiarity breeds contempt; you used to be so polite.”

“I shan’t tell you where Blackwood is,” said Lord Saltire, “because I don’t choose. I don’t want you to have it. I want you to sit here in the dark and talk to me, instead of reading it.”

“I will sit and talk to you in the dark; only you must not tell ghost stories.”

“I want you to sit in the dark,” said Lord Saltire, “because I want to be ‘ vox et prceterea nihil. You will see why, directly. My dear Mary Corby, I want to have some very serious talk with you. Let us joke no more.”

Mary settled herself at once into the armchair opposite Lord Saltire, and, resting her cheek on her hand, turned her face towards the empty fireplace. “Now, my dear Lord Saltire,” she said, “go on. I think I can anticipate what you are going to say.”

“You mean about Charles.”

“Yes.”

“Ah, that is only a part of what I have to say. I want to consult you there, certainly; but that is but a small part of the business.”

“Then I am curious.”

“Do you know, then, I am between eighty and ninety years old?”

“I have heard so, my lord.”

“Well then, I think that the voice to which you are now listening will soon be silent for ever; and do not take offence; consider it as a dead man’s voice, if you will.”

“I will listen to it as the voice of a kind living friend,” said Mary. “A friend who has always treated me as a reasonable being and an equal.”

“That is true, Mary; you are so gentle and so clever, that is no wonder. See here; you have no jorivate fortune.”

“I have my profession,” said Mary, laughing.

“Yes, but your profession is one in which it is difficult to rise,” said Lord Saltire, “and so I have thought it necessary to provide for you in my will. For I must make a new one.”

Poor Mary gave a start. The announcement was so utterly unexpected. She did not know what to say, or what to think. She had had long night thoughts about poverty, old age, a life in a garret as a needlewoman, and so on; and had many a good cry over them, and had never found any remedy for them except saying her prayers, which she always found a perfect specific. And here, all of a sudden, was the question solved 1 She would have liked to thank Lord Sal tire. She would have liked to kiss his hand; but words were rather deficient. She tried to keep her tears back, and she in a way succeeded; then in the honesty of her soul she spoke.

“I will thank you more heartily, my lord, than if I went down on my knees and kissed your feet. All my present has been darkened by a great cloud of old age and poverty in the distance. You have swept that cloud away. Can I say more?”

“On your life, not another word. I could have over-burdened you with wealth, but I have chosen not to do so. Twenty thousand pounds will enable you to live as you have been brought up. Believe an old man when he says that more would be a plague to you.”

“Twenty thousand pounds!”

“Yes. That will bring you in, you will find, about six hundred a year. Take my word for it, it is quite enough. You will be able to keep your brougham, and ll that sort of thing. Believe me, you would not be so happy with more.”

“More!” said Mary quietly. “My lord, look here, and see what you have done. When the children are going to sleep, I sit, and sew, and sing, and, when they are gone to sleep, I still sit, and sew, and think. Then I build my Spanish castles; but the highest tower of my castle has risen to this — that in my old age I shoidd have ten shillings a week left me by some one, and be able to keep a canary bird, and have some old woman as pensioner. And now — now — now. Oh! I’ll be quiet in a moment. Don’t speak to me for a moment. God is very good.”

I hope Lord Saltire enjoyed his snuff. I think that, if he did not, he deserved to. After a pause Mary began again.

“Have I left on you the impression that I am selfish? I am almost afraid I have. Is it not so? I have one favour to ask of you. Will you grant it?”

“Certainly I will.”

“On your honour, my lord.”

“On my honour.”

“Reduce the sum you have mentioned to one-fourth. I have bound you by your honour. Oh, don’t make me a great heiress; I am not fit for it.”

Lord Saltire said, “Pish! If you say another word,

I will leave you ten thousand more. To the deuce with my honour; don’t talk nonsense.”

“You said you were going to be quiet in a moment,” he resumed presently. “Are you quiet now?”

“Yes, my lord; quiet and happy.”

“Are you glad I spoke to you in the dark?”

“Yes.”

“You will be more glad that it was in the dark directly. Is Charles Ravenshoe quite the same to you as other men 1 ”

“No,” said Mary; “that he most certainly is not. I could have answered that question to you in the brightest daylight.”

“Humph 1 ” said Lord Saltire. “I wish I could see him and you comfortably married, do you know? I hope I speak plain enough. If I don’t, perhaps you will be so good as to mention it, and I’ll try to speak a little plainer.”

“Nay; I quite understand you. I wonder if you will understand me, when I say that such a thing is utterly and totally out of the question.”

“I was afraid so. You are a pair of simpletons. My dear daughter (you must let me call you so), you must contemplate the contingency I have hinted at in the dark. I know that the best way to get a man rejected, is to recommend him; I, therefore, only say, that John

Marston loves you with his whole heart and soul, and that he is 2i protege of mine.”

“I am speaking to you as I would to my own father. John Marston asked me to be his wife last Christmas, and I refused him.”

“Oh, yes. I knew all about that the same evening. It was the evening after they were nearly drowned out fishing. Then there is no hope of a reconsideration there?”

&ldquo............